


Non Sequitur

by Dispatches (orphan_account)



Category: Askewniverse
Genre: Community: choc_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Dispatches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt #2. "Askewniverse, Hooper/Banky: semi-public sex - He doesn't appreciate the genius of Yanni."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non Sequitur

Hooper's slouching in a booth in a dark corner of the hotel bar, collar up and sunglasses on, partly because he doesn't want some dumb-ass cracker to spot him and wonder why Hooper X, famed creator of _White-Hating Coon_ and scourge of dumb-ass crackers everywhere, is drinking a Cosmopolitan with his pinky sticking out, and partly because Holden, Banky and Alyssa are all at the convention too, and if he sees more than one of them coming towards him he's going to have to hunker down under the table until they go away.

He loves his friends, he really does, but he can't help wishing they'd stop silently fuming at each other and _get over it_ already.

When Banky comes into the bar, he has a few moments' notice to wonder whether to duck and hide or brazen it out, and he spends those moments dithering and playing with the stem of his cocktail glass. By the time he's decided to duck, it's too late: Banky's spotted him. "Hooper!" he calls from across the bar, waving. Hooper sighs, takes his sunglasses off, and waves back. Banky grins and lopes across the floor, dodging tables and shoving pasty overweight fanboys out of the way until he reaches the booth and slides in, resting his arm on the top of the seatback. "How's it going, bro?"

"Oh, not bad," says Hooper. "I've had better. And you?"

"I got five requests for Bluntman &amp; Chronic sketches. Apart from that, it's been a blast."

Hooper's mouth twists and he sets his glass down. Ever since he and Holden had their little bust-up, Banky's refused to so much as sign back issues of _B&amp;C_; the last issue, "The Death of Chronic", was inked by someone else. "You're going to have to get over that some day."

Banky shrugs. "Over what?" Hooper frowns at him and Banky rolls his eyes. "I never did the pencils. I can't draw them on my own for shit, and besides..." He looks away. "I saw Holden today," he says abruptly.

"Me too," says Hooper, picking up his glass and toying with it. "He's changed his style. It's more detailed, more naturalistic. I'm not sure about it."

"It suits the stories he's writing," says Banky, and Hooper glances at him sharply; there's no bitterness in his voice, which is a surprise. Hooper's read _Chasing Amy_, and it's the typical self-indulgent Fantagraphics navel-gazing slice-of-life bullshit he's always despised, except. Except he was there at the time, and he knows how honest it is, how little Holden has sanitised the story or polished it up to make himself look good. He didn't sanitise Banky's role, either, which Hooper had thought would make Banky mad. Seeing him so unperturbed by it makes him want to shout _hallelujah_ because maybe they're going to be okay with what happened. Maybe, at long last, they're getting over it.

"Weeell," he says, drawing out the vowel and twisting his neck sideways, "can it be that you actually have a nice thing to say about the man who used to be your best friend in the whole wide world? Should I be checking for rains of blood?"

Banky rolls his eyes. "C'mon, Hooper -- "

"No, no, I'm pretty sure Nostradamus predicted this."

"I'm not -- " Banky shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat. "I _saw_ him, that's all. We didn't, like, _talk_ or any shit like that. Though I concede that there may have been gestures."

"Gestures?"

"Gestures. Handsignals. And then he went over to talk to Alyssa."

"Oh."

"No, not 'oh'. Jesus Christ, Hooper, why should I give a shit? It's not like she's going to take him back after what happened. Hell, it's not like it's any of my business if she does."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really." Banky laughs and pats Hooper's shoulder with the hand that's resting on the seatback, and Hooper's suddenly painfully aware of how close they are to -- fuck, to _snuggling_, which is wrong on a number of levels and still distressingly attractive.

He picks up his glass just to have something to do with his hands (which left to their own devices would probably be slipping around Banky's waist right about now), which means he's taking a sip from it when Banky says "Hey, you like dick, right?"

He spits, chokes, coughs, and, when Banky tries to "help" by whacking him on the back, shoves him away with a glare. "You -- !" he says when he finally gets his voice back. "What the hell kind of non sequitur is that?"

Banky shrugs, nonplussed. "Well, you do, don't you?"

"_Yes_, I do. You _know_ I do. And just what does that have to do with our previous topic of conversation?"

"Nothing. I was changing the subject."

Hooper levels a stare at him. Banky's "innocent" face is... actually not that bad, but Hooper knows him too well to be fooled. "Right. And was there a reason for changing the subject, pray tell?"

Banky puts his arm back where it was before. "You read his book, right?"

"Sure, and what does that -- "

Banky leans close till he's speaking straight into Hooper's ear, his warm breath enough to raise the hairs on the back of Hooper's neck. "I can do better than Holden," he says, and the half-whisper, half-growl is enough to sent a jolt of electricity straight to Hooper's dick.

He turns his face slowly. They're nose-to-nose, so close that he can see the patterns in Banky's irises. He's almost completely certain that if Banky were kidding around, he'd be able to tell.

He lifts his right hand to stroke Banky's chin through the beard. "If you're playing with me, boy, I swear -- "

"I swear to _Christ_, Hoop, I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

Well, fuck. What more does he need, an engraved invitation?

Hooper slides his hand back to cup the back of Banky's head and leans forward to close the half-inch gap between his lips and Banky's. Banky's hair is soft and silky under his fingers and the rougher hair of his beard feels good against Hooper's chin, but not half as good as Banky's lips pressing against his or his tongue sweeping through his mouth like he's got to taste every corner of it _right now_. It's hot and intense and _Jesus_, Banky's slipped his left hand under Hooper's coat and he's stroking the sensitive skin at his waist and lower back and Hooper's so goddamned turned on he has to tear his mouth away and take deep breaths before he explodes.

"Jesus!" he pants.

"Nope," Banky murmurs, his voice hoarse and ragged. "Banky Edwards. Pleased to meet you."

For that, Hooper cuffs him gently around the back of his head, then he has to kiss him again, because Banky's fingers are still stroking his back and his own hands are sliding, sliding -- up under Banky's shirt, over his chest, and the tingling in his fingers is almost as good as the pulse pounding in his dick.

This time, it's Banky who pulls away with a groan and a moan, grabbing Hooper's wrists and panting "Do you have a room?" -- and, really, that's kind of a stupid question, because the con's only an hour's drive from Redbank and Hooper's only there for one day, so of _course_ he doesn't have a room, but Banky's face is flushed and his lips are swollen and his pupils are dilated, and, _God_, he wishes he did. He wishes he had a room with a king-sized bed that he could stretch Banky out on. He wants to watch Banky take his clothes off -- would he strip like a soldier, quick and businesslike, or slow and tempting like a stripper, or clumsy and eager and tripping over himself like the teenager he is at heart? And above all, he wants to lick a stripe down the middle of Banky's chest and see how far down that blush can spread.

But he doesn't have a room, and he's damned if he's going to wait until he does, so he slides his hand down towards Banky's belt buckle and murmurs "Who needs a room?" into his ear. Banky's Adam's apple bobs in his throat and he jerks under Hooper's hand -- but not away. Hooper unfastens the belt quickly, deft and practiced, and Banky lets his head thump back against the booth's upholstery. "Holy _shit_! Hoop, are you really gonna -- "

Hooper shushes him with a kiss. "This bar's pretty dark. We won't get arrested if you can keep your big fat mouth occupied."

Banky's eyes narrow. "Is that a challenge?"

Hooper smirks and slides his hand inside Banky's boxers.

Banky may be new to this, but he is one _hell_ of a quick study. There's only a second's delay before he's imitating Hooper, unfastening Hooper's own pants a little more clumsily but with just as much enthusiasm. He makes a little "hm!" sound that's louder than Hooper would like, but then he seems to recall that he's supposed to be quiet, and presses his lips and tongue against Hooper's throat.

Hooper hopes to God he's going to get another shot at this, because right now his legs are cramping and he has to bite his lip to keep from making a dangerous amount of noise, and one day he wants to touch Banky someplace comfortable, where they can be loud for each other if  
they want to; but he wouldn't give up Banky's mouth on his throat or Banky's hand expertly stroking his dick for a billion dollars and an Eisner award. Banky's _really_ fucking good at this. So good that Hooper has to remind himself to keep up, let his fingers move along the silky heat in his hand and not just savour the way it feels.

He's close, so close. If he's careful, if he times it just right, he can make it so that they --

\-- and Banky jerks in Hooper's hand and nips sharply at Hooper's throat just as his own hand _twists_ round the head of Hooper's dick, and they're coming within seconds of each other.

There's a long moment when they're just sort of slumped against each other, like this under-the-table handjob has taken too much out of them for either of them to move; then Banky squirms and wriggles and eventually manages to extract a small sachet from the pocket of his jeans. "Moist towelette?" he says with a mocking grin, holding it out to Hooper, who wavers between glaring and laughing, and eventually settles for snatching the thing from Banky's hand and using it to wipe himself off.

Banky himself uses the napkin that came with Hooper's Cosmopolitan, and tosses it into the next booth over when he's done. It isn't exactly shocking, given what they just did (_in a crowded bar_, oh God, Hooper shivers a little at the thought), but it is at least a little bit surprising. "You're a pig, you know that?"

Banky just grins at him. "I have no objections to being the man in this relationship. One of us has to be."

"'Relationship'? Uh, honey, I hate to break it to you, but one absurdly rushed handjob does not a relationship make."

"Doesn't it count as two, since we both got off?"

Hooper waves a hand airily. "Oh, technicalities," he says, trying not to smile. He likes the sound of "relationship". He likes it a _lot_.

Banky slings his arm back around Hooper's shoulder and says, "Anyway, I had this great idea for a comic book we could do together. _Baby Dave Meets White-Hating Coon_."

Hooper blinks. It's the dumbest comic book pitch he's ever heard. It's so dumb he's pretty sure Banky's not really serious. It's so dumb he's not even sure he can go along with the joke, because all he can think is _oh my God, that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard._

But sex makes him pliant; always has. So he doesn't tell Banky he was dropped on the head as a child, and he doesn't tell him that the non sequiturs are going to stop being charming pretty damned soon. He leans into the crook of Banky's arm instead and lets his voice wash over him, as the music in the bar changes to something better -- holy crap, is that Yanni? yes, that's Yanni all right. "Shush!" he says.

Banky cocks his head, nods, and keeps his mouth shut until the music changes again. "See," he says, "I knew I could do better than Holden. He doesn't appreciate the genius of Yanni."

Hooper cuffs him round the back of the head, again. "You can stop comparing me to him any time you like, honey child."

"Sorry," says Banky, kissing the top of Hooper's head. "I don't mean to be a dick about it, I just, uh. I don't really know how to take this shit seriously."

There's something dark and painful behind those words. Hooper thinks of the closing pages of _Chasing Amy_ and the things that happened that Holden didn't write about because he wasn't there to see them, and he strokes Banky's cheek with a gentleness that surprises even him.

"Sure you do," he says, biting his tongue against the joke that'll tumble out and spoil things if he isn't careful. Banky looks at him then -- _really_ looks at him -- and nods, and Hooper lets his head drop onto Banky's shoulder. "_Baby Dave Meets White-Hating Coon_," he murmurs, thinking that maybe he gets it now. "The idea has merit."

"Bet your ass it does," says Banky, and Hooper laughs.

[end]


End file.
